


Burn your heart...

by makingmovies



Series: these violent delights have violent ends [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 05:05:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makingmovies/pseuds/makingmovies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This is the end<br/>Hold your breath and count to ten<br/>Feel the earth move and then<br/>Hear my heart burst again</p><p>For this is the end<br/>I've drowned and dreamt this moment<br/>So overdue I owe them<br/>Swept away, I'm stolen"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn your heart...

**Author's Note:**

> Ok I rewrote this fic basically because I was in a bad mood when I first wrote it so it's ended up being absolutely lame :D i also changed the ending. I don't usually write in first person, but since sir ACD does so... 
> 
> Listened to Adele - Skyfall.  
> Disclaimer: I own nothing

 

> _Mr. Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker St., London_
> 
> _Dear Mr. Holmes,_
> 
> _a man will die tonight. Your presence is extremely important. Regent Canal's dock, 11 o' clock._
> 
> _Yours faithfully_

Sherlock placed the letter on the kitchen table. "Well, John, it seems I have been challenged" Sherlock told me one day. "This letter's sender apparently dares me to thwart a murder tonight, at 11 p.m. precisely. Our man deliberately hasn't left many clues regarding his identity - he wore gloves - but I still am able to deduce a few facts: clearly a man, who used a ballpoint pen and who was wearing a white t-shirt; this paper isn't expensive - it can be easily found to any stationer's -, yet he is a man of learning with a frank personality. In conclusion, an English, middle-class man, who is in his late thirties and who amuses himself with chemical experiments is our sender".

I stayed silent, thoughtful, while Sherlock waited for my admired and pleasing words, and that is why he was astonished, and then utterly disappointed when my reply was another one: "Are you sure this letter hasn't been sent by a mythomaniac, somebody who enjoys making Sherlock Holmes waste his time?", I asked him. He soon answered with the usual, arrogant tone, "Maybe, John, but I don't think so; I know instinctively that something serious is going to happen tonight. And at least, now I have something to spend this tedious day with!", he laughed, and soon added "I thought it was going to be a tiresome evening!".

Damnit, I had grown so weary with him - his arrogance, his uncaring attitude were exasperating me.

* * *

At 10.30 p.m. he and I were at the indicate place, a dark jetty near to river Thames. A street lamp was lighting up the scene a little. I felt frightened and excited at the same time. Suddenly, Sherlock's attention was drawn to an unused boatshed. He looked into my eyes as he silently pointed it out to me. What I saw into his eyes was as unexpected as unusual, regarding Sherlock. What I saw... it was  _doubt_ ,  _fear_. I felt a shiver down my spine. No, it was too late to draw back - I couldn't hesitate.

But his eyes, his wonderful, piercing eyes, they were so beautiful... It was as if my heart had sightly lurched to one side, missing a beat, at the sight of Sherlock's tall figure towering over me in the moonlight - I swallowed hard. I saw his face, his body, I heard all the unspoken words that should have been told before. The sapce between us was decreasing more and more, I imagined what we should have told and have done - what we _could_ have done. But we didn't. Instead, Sherlock turned his back and headed to the boatshed. I knew he loved me too, but he wasn't able to accept it - it had torn my heart apart, but now it didn't matter. He was a machine, he didn't have feelings, but now I didn't care anymore.

 

I followed him into the dark boatshed. It was a small, wooden building. Darkness surrounded us, therefore Sherlock lighted his torch - the thin light beam drew his attention to a pile of dusty boxes. Without turning around, he said: "Well, John, our man clearly is a mythomaniac. It's 11 o'clock and still nothin-" when suddenly one, two, three, four shots interrupted him, as four bullets sank into my chest.

I fell to the ground while I saw Sherlock freezing. His torch fell from his hand; he lunged at me, his body over mine, he took my face in his hands, "John-", his voice broke. I had so many things to tell him and so little time...

"John" he repeated, "please, don't leave me". The tears made his eyes look even more beautiful.

It took me great effort to pass a hand through his hair. "Don't be sad. I love you, Sherlock, and I'll always will". 

The last thing I saw was Sherlock,  _my_ Sherlock, crying with his face buried into my neck, his hands stained with blood. The gun still was in my hand.


End file.
